Jacob tied the ends of the bedsheets together into a makeshift rucksack for carrying whatever supplies he might be able to scrounge, and he yawned, rubbing tired eyes. Molly’s words had haunted him throughout the night. I wish you could hold me now and tell me everything is going to be okay. He gathered the folded rucksack and looked through the windows. The streets were doused in morning light, hopeful perhaps, were it not for the flesh-eaters that still crowded the reddened concrete. Everything wasn’t going to be okay.

He paced back and forth, repeatedly emptying and reloading the bullet cartridge from his gun’s stock and checking his pocket for the room keycard, all to delay his departure. The risks were too grave. How would he succeed where so many had failed? Breathing hard, Jacob eyed the kitchen sink and reminded himself that death was a guarantee if he stayed. Only if he left was there a chance of survival, however small. He whispered a prayer to a God he didn’t believe in. Fuck the truth. He needed allies more than ever, and maybe somewhere, somehow, someone was listening. He disjammed the door and entered the emergency stairwell.

The stairwell flickered with fluorescent light. Jacob grasped his gun with both hands, satin rucksack dangling from the ends of his fingers, and leaned over the guardrail. Peering into the spiral abyss, he saw, many levels below, the dark outline of a figure. He squinted, wondering if he should call out – if it was a survivor like him – but the man suddenly and inexplicably looked up as though he was aware of being watched. Jacob fell into a crouch and shuffled away from the guardrail as the pitter-patter of rising footsteps resonated off the walls. He closed his eyes and cursed his stupidity. What if it was a flesh-eater? It was more likely than not. The flickering seemed to merge with the echo of footsteps. His heart thundered, but he told himself that he had to keep moving forward. He skulked down to the seventeenth floor and made his way inside, unable to shake the feeling that he was being followed.

Jacob froze in place. Many of the doors had been smashed in, hinges twisted and broken, splintered wood littering the ground. Outside one of the few remaining doors stood two flesh-eaters, growling and pounding and clawing at it. This was how it had ended for Molly, he realized. Just like this. Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eye. He winced the pain away and raised the gun at the flesh-eaters, ready to pull the trigger. For Molly.

Cold steel was pressed against his neck.

“Don’t fucking move,” whispered a gruff voice.

“Are you one of them?” Jacob asked. His face wetted with fearful tears.

“If I were, you’d be gargling blood right about now.” He patted Jacob down. “Hand me your gun before you do something stupid. The infected flock to sound like flies to a carcass.”

Jacob passed him the gun.

“Good,” the man said. “Do you have a safe place to hide?”

“I’m up at the eighteenth floor. It’s free of flesh-eaters at least, but there’s no food or water.”

“The infected,” he corrected. He lowered the knife and tapped Jacob’s shoulder. He was dark and handsome, with a military cut, the sides shaved down to the scalp. “Remember this face. I don’t need you fucking things up ‘cause you got me confused with one of them.” He reached behind and pulled out a toy soldier from his backpack – a bright blue children’s pack – gesturing at the two infected. “My son’s in there. Your job is to ensure that the path is clear while I distract them. Understood?”

Jacob was in no position to argue, stuck as he was between an armed man and the infected, but his mind was assaulted by all the possible scenarios ending in his death, or worse.

“And what am I supposed to do if I meet one? You have my gun.”

“They bleed the same as we do. Figure it out,” the man said, shrugging. “Just try not to get bit.”

Jacob resigned himself to waiting by the door as the man readied the toy. He was being used as bait, he realized, or perhaps as a warning signal. In that moment, he was worth about as much as a damn toy.

“Go.” The man pressed the button and lobbed the figurine to the far end of the hallway, where it emitted a series of pre-programmed lines. The infected turned their attention towards the sound. He looked at Jacob and frowned. “Now.”

Jacob nodded and tiptoed up the stairs. To his relief, the path was uncontested, and in a few short moments, the man entered the stairwell leading his son by the hand. Once inside the suite, he squatted down and shushed everyone, his ear planted on the door. His son stood quietly beside him as they waited. Jacob gritted his teeth in preparation for the worst, but soon enough the man nodded to confirm that it was safe.

“Jake Shaffer.” He shook Victor’s hand, gripping hard to impress. He needed Victor to trust him enough to return the gun. “So the army sent you in?”

“Not the way you think. I had just finished my last tour of duty when I came down to the city to visit Rodrigo. Then the infection hit.” He rose from the ground. “All the TV channels were broadcasting the same message, over and over. Warning. We are currently experiencing a category five pandemic. This is not a test. Remain calm, stay indoors, and secure your immediate surroundings. Do not approach or interact with strangers. Standby for official assistance.”

“Category five…?”

“It means that it’s been four days and you’re the first normal I’ve seen who wasn’tabout to die.” He paused, and said, “Compared to this, Iraq feels like a fucking paradise.”

—

Rodrigo occupied himself with the last of his action figures. He flapped his lips to mimic explosions and gunfire, swooping the toy around the kitchen counter. Jacob and Victor stood by the window and watched, their attention hovering between the boy-at-play and the streets below.

“Got any kids of your own?”

“Nope.”

“Wife?”

“Ex-wife.”

Victor raised his brow. “Consider yourself lucky. At least she’s out of your life for good.”

“Yeah. Lucky.” Jacob let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

“It could be worse. Trust me. I still have to deal with my bitch anytime I want to see Rodrigo.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the toy being slammed down onto the counter. Victor moved towards his son and slapped him hard across the face. “Keep it down,” he hissed. Rodrigo nodded through tears. Jacob recoiled at first – the room was soundproof, there was no need – but in the end he was glad for Victor’s discipline. The last thing he wanted was for some brat to get him killed.

Victor walked back coolly and gestured for Jacob to continue. “You were saying?”

“Sorry – about your ex-wife. Your divorce.”

“It is what it is.” He sighed. “Nobody really teaches you about loyalty until it’s too late, y’know? I proposed when I first shipped out. Figured someone should love me before I die.”

Rodrigo cupped his hands over his ears and crouched to the floor, all the better to drown out his father’s words. It was familiar territory. Victor looked at his son and smirked. Good that Rodrigo be reminded of his mother’s infidelities. Good that he learn not to trust. Good.

“Two years ago I find out she’d started fucking one of my old high school buddies. Guy owns a cleaning company, makes good money, apparently. So, there I was, getting shot at in the goddamned scorching desert, and she’s back in the city fucking a glorified janitor.”

He continued, “We get a divorce. She gets custody of course, and then she moves in with the guy. Business is doing well, she says. He can provide for Rodrigo, help lighten the load a bit.” He gestured around the room. “You think I can afford this? Had to save up for four months so that I could show Rodrigo that I was capable, too. That I could provide for him as well as anybody else. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he sees him more than he sees me.” Victor swept his gaze across the street of infected and onto his son. He sneered, “I risked my life for a nation of scum.”

The room was cloaked in silence. Rodrigo hid in the kitchen, his eyes level with the countertop, unsure of whether all the hatred had been expelled.

“You hungry?” Victor asked, turning towards his son.

“Y-yes, papa.”

Jacob beamed. He hadn’t eaten in two days, so long that even the gases in his stomach had settled into a sort of fatalism, the rumblings few and far between. He stared greedily at the backpack as Victor signaled for his son to approach. The pack was unloaded – one liter of water, two granola bars, a small packet of chips – spoils of the lower floors, and Victor slid a granola bar and the chips to his son. He ordered him to eat and split the last bar in half, handing Jacob his share.

“Is that it?” Jacob asked, examining his sliver of granola. He looked over at the unopened chips packet. “He gets more than twice as much.”

Victor laid the pistol among the consumables so that it was visible. “If you want to survive, you’ll do as I say,” he said. “Out here, you’re baggage. Stay lightweight, or I might be inclined to leave your ass behind.”

Jacob’s face flushed deep red. Stripped of his weapon and his pride, he suddenly regretted the company, though he took solace in the fact that it had been thrust upon him, rather than having been his own choice. Sensing his shame, Rodrigo shuffled over and presented a handful of the chips.

“You can have some if you like,” Rodrigo said. “I don’t need all of it.”

Victor grabbed his son’s arm and pulled him violently to the ground. “What goes for him goes for you, too. Now eat.” He watched them closely as they ate, and after they finished, gave the water to his son to drink. Counting down, he pulled the bottle away when he decided it was enough and passed the water to Jacob. “Three sips,” he ordered.

Jacob nodded and leaned back as lukewarm water splashed down his throat. Twice more, and he handed it back. His mouth was no longer parched, though he was far from refreshed. “I imagine we’ll need to search for supplies soon,” he said, hoping to release some of the tension that had built up.

Victor gulped down a portion of the remaining water and smacked his lips with relief. “If only it were that easy.”

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/18/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse-part-3-company/feed/4tarunssEmbrace Failure.https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/11/embrace-failure/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/11/embrace-failure/#commentsTue, 11 Sep 2012 23:15:48 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=237Continue reading →]]>You took a chance. You ignored everyone who told you not to. You tightened your belt, clenched your fists, and believed with all your heart that you were going to make your dreams a reality. Each day demanded your blood, sweat, and tears.

And then, finally, after having invested so much into your dream, you encounter your first major failure. Your book is fundamentally flawed, the writing barely a step above novice. Your business model is unsustainable. You didn’t pass the exam.

The thought of your failure is overwhelming. Your breathing is constricted, your chest throbs with dull pain, your knees wobble. You remember all the people who you told of your inevitable success. You’re going to collapse. What will they think? Your failure is a big, lighted sign announcing to the world that they were right all along not to believe in you. You think about how you aren’t special. You think about how you should’ve fallen in line with the rest of them, just as you were meant to.

Your legs buckle and you hit the floor. The pain distracts you for a moment, and for that you are thankful, but the emotions catch up quickly. Your face rests in a puddle of fresh tears. You tried, and you failed. It’s over. It’s all over.

I’m here to tell you it’s not over.

Get up from the floor and stand up straight. Wipe your face dry with your sleeve. Breathe in as deep as you can. Cold air rushes into your lungs like an avalanche.

Embrace your failure. Learn to respect failure. Your failure is a badge of honor — wear it with pride. You attempted something great.

You seem calmer now. Good. Think about your project. What did you do wrong? How can you improve? What have you learned? If the answers don’t come easy, keep thinking — they will come. Study. Research. Question.

Why?

You still want this.

Spent too much time already, too much energy already.

Don’t let laziness rule your future. Few succeed overnight. Remember what motivated you in the first place. Remember the life that awaits you if you stop now. Don’t let yourself post-rationalize. Visualize everything. Don’t hold back. You still want this dream, dammit.

Can’t handle another failure.

Every failure makes you better if you make an effort to learn from your mistakes. Failures are not dead ends. Failures are steps forward. With each failure, you inch closer and closer to your goal. If you have not succeeded, then you are moving closer. Always remember that.

It’s not over until you decide that it is.

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/11/embrace-failure/feed/24tarunssThe Start of a Zombie Apocalypse – Part 2https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/02/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse-part-2/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/02/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse-part-2/#commentsSun, 02 Sep 2012 07:48:55 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=227Continue reading →]]>Sorry for the delayed update! Here’s a bit more from my Zombie novel. If you haven’t read the first part, please refer to The Start of a Zombie Apocalypse.

—

Jacob paced back and forth, raking nervous fingers through his hair. He had just dialed 911 from the landline, but all he got was static. He tried other numbers – the police department, the fire department, the operator, a pizza place – and still, nothing. Not a single outbound call was going through.

He found himself stealing frequent glances at the elevator. The flesh-eater from the lobby would wake up soon, and he’d need to be ready if she found him again. It was certainly plausible, given that her staff keycard granted her access to his floor. Jacob cracked his knuckles with fresh conviction and pushed the sofa against the elevator doors to set up a blockade. His defense would have to hold until the authorities arrived. He collected chairs from each room, stacked them against one other atop the sofa, and taking another, brought it to the stairwell door and jammed it under the handle. Satisfied with his improvisation, he made his way to the bathroom.

Jacob picked his gun off the floor and wiped it dry. The weight of the weapon always surprised him, made him feel powerful, deliberate, somehow more in control, and moving back to the main room, he propped the gun at shoulder level and took practice aim between the two blockaded entrances. He thought back to the nightmarish descent, the growls and whispers and snarls, and hoped that his mind had simply contrived a lie to distract him from his depression. Still, it had all seemed so real. After some time, he lowered the gun and began to search for his cell phone, looking under pillows and cabinets and in drawers, but to no avail, having hidden it in some forgettable nook when he first arrived. Better hidden so that he wouldn’t give in to weakness and call Molly, he remembered. He managed a laugh. It was just as she had predicted: in the end, his pride would prove his downfall.

But not today.

Jacob caught a glimpse of his cell phone lying behind the wardrobe closet. He dragged it out of the shadows with reaching fingers and blew the dust off the screen. It had been left in sleep mode for days, but with his touch the phone glowed awake. Service not available, he read. He was stunned. There was no reason for service to have been cut off. He had paid his bills on time, every time, for the entirety of his adult life. Jacob nearly smashed the phone against the wall in anger but thought the better of it. Emergencies were always patched through the network. He steadied his breathing, dialed 911, and put the headset to his ear. There was only silence. Minutes passed. He looked down at the screen and cursed his accumulation of bad luck.

With his phone in one hand and gun in the other, Jacob returned to guarding the entrances. Despite the setbacks, he began to convince himself that he could hold out. He was armed. The water was still running. He was out of food, sure, but it would take weeks for starvation to claim him, and by then he would be safe and free, maybe in Europe or Tokyo or Brazil. He’d always wanted to go to Brazil. At the very least, he figured, the trauma had earned him a vacation.

—

Jacob leaned against the kitchen counter with a sigh. An hour had passed since his encounter with the flesh-eater, and comforted by the relative safety of his suite, fear had given way to boredom. He located the television remote and flicked it on, but, as expected, the service had been terminated. Nevertheless, he browsed through seventy channels of black and white static before shutting it off.

He took out his cell phone and tapped through the menus to pass the time. Some voicemails had been saved to his phone from when it still had service. Though the battery was nearly drained, it was enough to check his messages.

Monday, August 12th.

Hey buddy, so listen, I know you asked for time away from the office, but there’ve been some unforeseen complications with the China investments. I’m going to need you to touch base-*click*.

He deleted the message.

Tuesday, August 13th.

Jakeybaby, it’s been a week since your father and I have heard from you-*click*.

Deleted.

Friday, August 16th.

Jake…it’s Molly.

His stomach clenched upon hearing her voice, but he could sense that something was wrong, as though she had been crying.

I think this will be the last chance I get to speak to you.I don’t know where you are, but I hope you’ve found a safe place now that the world’s gone mad.

She sobbed her words out.

All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. You just…you didn’t know how to be happy. Or you didn’t want to be. I don’t know. I’m sorry, Jake. I wish it hadn’t come to this. I wish you could hold me now and tell me everything is going to be okay.

There was a sharp thumping noise in the background and Molly shrieked. Jacob’s palms began to sweat.

I…I want you to know that I love you, even now.

The continuous thumping ended in a massive crack like the sound of wood being splintered. She hurried out her last words.

I love you-

The phone crashed to the ground amidst a flurry of screams and desperate growls, and the message ended as abruptly as it began.

Jacob balled his fists until his knuckles whitened, trying to stifle the flow of tears. He told himself that she could survive anything – she had always been a fighter – but his heart throbbed a different beat. He had immediately recognized the growls over the phone, and his bones hurt for fear of the implication. There were more flesh-eaters out there. Even Molly said that the world had gone mad. Surely it had. How else could he explain the situation? Jacob imagined her encounter with one of them, of her being overwhelmed, having her flesh torn away from her body as she screamed bloody mercy into the phone. Drowning in futility, she died telling him she loved him. No, he muttered, shaking his head defiantly. No, no, no.

He walked over to the windows and, for the first time in a week, raised the blinds. His knees buckled at the sight of the city materializing before him. The world had gone mad.

—

The water stopped running around midnight. Jacob placed his forehead flat against the window and exhaled his stress. According to a television program he had once seen on mountain climbing, he would have roughly four days before his body shriveled up from dehydration. Not that it mattered, really. Help might never arrive, let alone in the span of days or weeks. There had been no sign of police or military or medical personnel, despite whole buildings enveloped in blackness, whole streets packed full of flesh-eaters, hundreds of them, wandering aimlessly through the night past abandoned cars and the strewn about remains of people.

He looked through the glass with vacant eyes. He recalled the sight of a young couple plunging to their deaths, their hands clasped together until the moment of impact. His heart had broken a second time with their fall. He knew that he was not so different from the jumpers. If Molly were with him, perhaps that would be their decision, too. Now, however, he decided that if the flesh-eaters were upon him he would leave the world by the end of his gun, just as he had originally intended. It was the only reasonable thing to do, given what he’d seen of their victims. He had since learned the truth. Some were eaten alive, but others became them.

Jacob shuddered at the memory. He had been watching the sunset when a motorcyclist suddenly accelerated out of an underground parking garage located opposite the hotel. It was a fool’s gamble – the street was checkered with flesh-eaters – but the motorcyclist wove in and out of danger with a restrained confidence. As he approached the end of the street, however, a pack of the bastards rushed in from the next crossing, attracted by the engine noise perhaps. They formed an impasse with their numbers, forcing the motorcyclist to slam his brakes too quickly. He lost control and slid to the ground, defenseless before the flesh-eaters as they descended upon him. Jacob was certain that all that would be left were the grisly remains. It brought him an eerie feeling to watch the man writhe around in pain, to taste even a small part of that desperation – voyeur to a death that might soon be his – but not a minute later, the flesh-eaters backed away almost uniformly. Physically intact though covered in blood, the man rose from the ground and began to gesture in the manner of his once-attackers. The rest followed suit, and they continued as though nothing had happened, treating the victim as one of their own.

Jacob tapped his forehead against the glass, still struggling to come to grips with the realization that the flesh-eaters were making the normal ones theirs. With each passing moment they were growing in number, becoming even more of a threat. They would overwhelm the city soon if they hadn’t already. He wondered if the military would just nuke the fucking place, if some hardass general in a command center was arguing their fate that very moment. They’re a lost cause; let God have mercy on their souls, the general would declare, before he slammed his fist down on the red button and wiped them out. The world would sigh their collective relief, they would mourn, and finally they would celebrate the eradication as their salvation. He would be ash, to be remembered in the future by some distant relative as that one who was lost in the bombing.

He stepped back from the window and passed his gun from one hand to the other, rubbing the palm sweat off onto his shirt. He hadn’t let go of the weapon for hours. Looking at it now, Jacob realized the irrelevance of whatever circumstances surrounded his death – bullet, bomb, or cannibalism. In each case he would be lost to history, impossibly insignificant, as though he never lived in the first place, damned to existential hell. Only after having shed his suicidal drive could he fully understand. If there were ever hope of redemption, he would have to endure.

Jacob checked the barricaded entrances to ensure their strength, then moved to the bathroom and locked himself in to sleep. He decided that he would search for food and water supplies in the morning.

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/09/02/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse-part-2/feed/14tarunssNeeds vs. Wants: Feeding your Dreamhttps://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/26/needs-vs-wants-feeding-your-dream/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/26/needs-vs-wants-feeding-your-dream/#commentsMon, 27 Aug 2012 02:56:16 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=182Continue reading →]]>It’s not an uncommon sight — a dreamer, slouched over his desk, trying desperately not to succumb to inertia — if only he had the willpower to focus, if only he had the persistence to continue in the wake of defeat, if only.

Distraction. Fear. Laziness. The sum of these forces pervades our lives and prevents so many of us from accomplishing that which we truly desire. This seems counter-intuitive. If this dream is what our heart demands, then we should not feel lazy in pursuing it, right?

Wrong.

The reason why we so often find ourselves stuck in patterns of behavior that contribute to our eventual failure is because we make the mistake of merely wanting our dreams as opposed to needing them.

Society teaches us to contextualize our dreams as aspirations, as wants, things of passing fancy that, if left in poor condition, we will eventually abandon. But desire is a spectrum. At one end is want, and at the other is need. Thus, there is something transformative in wanting enough that you generate a need.

So make your dream a necessity. Want your dream so thoroughly that you feel you need it to survive, each step along the path a treasured breath saving you from drowning, each failure feeding your continued appetite.

We allow ourselves to sabotage our own success because we give ourselves conscious opportunities to do so. Remember, want is conscious, need is unconscious. If you have to think about what you’re going to do, chances are you’ll think up something to distract yourself with, too.

When you’re hungry, you eat. You don’t avoid eating by virtue of laziness. You don’t get distracted from hunger. You get distracted by hunger. Aim to internalize your dreams in much the same way. Know that you cannot survive without your dream. Let the pangs of your unfulfilled dream frustrate you until you are forced to satisfy it. Feed it, feed it, feed it.

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/26/needs-vs-wants-feeding-your-dream/feed/19tarunssThe Start of a Zombie Apocalypsehttps://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/23/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/23/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse/#commentsFri, 24 Aug 2012 03:34:45 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=171Continue reading →]]>Writing a zombie apocalypse novel to see where it takes me. Having a lot of fun with it so far. Sharing it for any curious readers out there.

—

Jacob slumped back in the Italian-marbled bathtub of his hotel suite and wept. Seven days of self-imposed isolation. Seven days with shades drawn, soundproofed windows, and with the floor all to himself. Seven days since he left Molly to clear her stuff out of the apartment. He picked up his gun and tracked the silver glean along its barrel. Everything had gone to shit – the divorce had been finalized, he was still working the same banking career that he swore he would quit ten years ago – everything, but it was time to take control. He cocked the gun, pressed the end of the barrel flat against his skull and shut his eyes, ready to pull the trigger.

Instead, he laughed.

He imagined Molly meeting up with some tall, handsome divorcee, one willing and able to have her biological children. She would smile, he would smile, and she would talk about how terrible her ex-husband had been, he would pretend to care, and they would marry as soon as was socially acceptable. Then she would finally get what she wanted. Nine months later she’d be popping out a little screaming bastard for the whole world to cherish.

Jacob lowered the gun. He couldn’t do it – not now, at least. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. He told himself that if Molly were here, she would probably cross her arms and frown, thinking how typical this all was, and he laughed even as his cheeks wetted with fresh tears. He extended a foot to start the faucet, and, as a steady stream of water began to lick his toes, reflected on his suicide note on the table in the main room. He had written and re-written the note for days to get it just right. At first, he had decided to tell the whole truth. That he had concealed the fact of his impotence for so long because he never really wanted a child. That he had cursed her out, fought with her, and threatened her so many times because he was miserable. That love was never going to be enough. Then, he decided that the truth was too harsh. She deserved better. In the end, the note simply read: I’m sorry for the mess.

Jacob mouthed the words, and upon hearing them spoken aloud, shook his head, unimpressed with his last preparations. The decision to blow his brains out in a bathtub had been too polite. Had he pulled the trigger, his life wouldn’t even have left a stain on the carpet.

He put the gun aside and let the warm water wash over him, remembering his college days, when the future seemed so far away and nothing was impossible, when it was all new and interesting: sex, work, whatever. He sighed, framing a thin layer of stomach-fat with his hands – skinnyfat – and laughed his disappointment through his nose. He found himself wishing that he had become something, whether great or terrible, to have generated a blip on the vast radar of life, but his thoughts were interrupted by sharpening pangs of hunger.

Jacob splashed his way out of the bathroom and entered the kitchen stark naked. He swung the fridge door wide open, casting a flare of light across the darkened room, and leaning inside, scanned the shelves for something to eat. Empty, except for a wedge of cream cheese and the last remaining beer bottle. He gave a slight pause before reaching for the beer, after which he collapsed onto the couch. The staff had last stocked the fridge four days ago, and after that, he had ordered them to cease regular service to his room so that he could wallow in his misery alone. But he hadn’t planned on living through his stock of groceries, and now he was desperate for food, and, taking a swig of beer he realized, perhaps for company, too. He picked up the phone next to the couch and dialed the front desk.

The line rang in his ear, once, thrice, five times. Jacob lost count. No answer. He slammed the phone down onto the receiver and cursed. He was paying three thousand a night for the suite; the least they could do was answer the damn phone when he had a request. He chugged the rest of the beer and redialed, drumming impatiently on his bare thigh as he waited. A minute passed, and still, no answer.

And so he sat in the vacuum silence of the penthouse with only the sound of his wailing gut to accompany him. Bored and lonely and upset, he took to humming an old, happy tune, just as his marriage counselor had once advised. It wasn’t working. Learn to control your anger and you will learn to control your life, the counselor had said, with Molly nodding her emphatic agreement. Jacob immediately stopped humming. Fuck their little tricks. Maybe it was right to be angry, but the counselor had always been more concerned with keeping everyone cattle calm than anything else, having argued many times that he could stand to benefit from medication. Pop pills and ignore the truth, Jacob mused, thinking that Molly and the counselor would have preferred that he plodded through life, functional and calm, pumped full of all sorts of receptor blockers and protein inhibitors so that he was unable to make any sense of the vague feeling that something was wrong. Then, perhaps, when he was old and gray and lying on his deathbed surrounded by the family he was supposed to love, the medicines would wear off and he would gain a moment of clarity, and in that moment, experience an unimaginably painful singularity of pent-up regret before his world turned to darkness.

Damn, he thought. I need to eat.

—

Jacob buttoned the top of his collar and breathed in deep as he waited for the elevator. The shaft jutted straight through the middle of the suite. He hadn’t talked to anyone in several days. What would the hotel staff think? He shuffled to the closest mirror, ran his fingers through his hair to ensure that it was properly groomed, and locked eyes with his own reflection. A shiver crawled up his spine. His reflection stared back, cold and lifeless – looking as though he was preparing for his own funeral – but he reminded himself that it was important to put on his best mask. When the news outlets reported his suicide, he wanted the staff to say that he had seemed friendly, jolly even, that he was a man who took care of himself. His death should be a shock to all acquainted.

Hello, he practiced, watching himself in the mirror. I’m in room 1801 – yes, the penthouse – I’m doing well, thanks. I called a few minutes ago, but I suppose it must not have gone through. Oh, it’s no problem ma’am, no problem at all. Don’t be sorry. Really. I needed some fresh air anyway. He raised his brow and whistled, Work – it’ll kill you if you let it, adding a light chuckle to make it convincing.

The elevator dinged its arrival. Jacob smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt before walking over, and once inside, pushed the button for the lobby. The doors slid shut and he cleared his throat, watching the panel of red digital numbers tick down.

Seventeen.

Sixteen.

Jacob scratched his forearm free of prickles. The same itch had bothered him on-and-off the week before Molly decided to call it quits.

Fifteen.

Fourteen.

He could have sworn he heard something growl. He pressed his ear against the door to listen.

Thirteen.

Twelve.

Eleven.

A garbled roar erupted from the other side, and Jacob fell into the corner, startled. His heart throbbed so loud that he worried his head would explode.

Ten.

Nine.

More growling. Jacob closed his eyes and slapped himself twice, hard, but when he opened his eyes the nightmare had yet to cease.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

A sudden thud rocked the outer doors, followed by whimpering, and then by the sound of nails scraping into metal. Beads of sweat cut cold lines down the sides of Jacob’s face. He wondered if he had finally crossed the abyss into the realm of insanity.

Five.

Four.

He clutched his chest and steadied his breathing. It was just his imagination gone wild. That was all. He was tired and hungry and upset. He needed to relax.

Three.

Two.

One.

The doors peeled open to reveal the lobby, and Jacob was greeted by air thick with the stink of putrid meat. He nearly retched from the odor. Covering his nose, he poked his head out of the elevator. The lobby was empty.

Despite the hotel being located on the busiest block in the city, the lobby was uncharacteristically silent. Jacob made his way to the front desk and tapped the bell. The staff would be fired, surely. They were missing service requests and…that smell had been left to linger. He wondered if the hotel manager was not unlike him, perhaps, a man with nothing to lose, planning a career suicide to match the suicide upstairs. He tapped the bell again and sighed – nobody was going to come – and leaned over the desk out of boredom. What he discovered made his stomach turn. There, splattered about the carpet, were darkened stains of blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. The trail wound away from the front desk, around a red-flecked sofa, and into a narrow hallway. Jacob pinched his nose tight as he approached. He was close to the source.

Jacob turned the corner and looked down the hallway. At the distant end, huddled by the ground, there was a woman in a white top and black pencil skirt. He rapped his knuckles against the wall to alert her to his presence. Though her back was turned, he was certain that she was a member of the staff, judging by her dress.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

No response. He moved a few steps closer and called out to her once again.

“Hello?”

The woman’s body began to twist and contort and she let out an unearthly growl. Jacob recalled the sounds of the elevator, but before he could make sense of it, she rose from the ground and faced him. From top to bottom, her front was painted with blood, and resting on the ground below her were half-eaten human remains. Jacob keeled over and coughed up the scarce contents of his stomach. He had never seen anything so depraved. How had no one else noticed? He wiped his lips clean and looked up to meet the woman’s gaze. She started to walk aggressively towards him, her head tilted to the side and her face void of all expression. He stepped back from the hallway.

“I won’t tell anyone what I saw,” he said, his hands in the air. “I promise.”

She snapped her head in his direction. Jacob nearly tripped over himself as he backed away. She was accelerating towards him.

“Someone help!” He shouted.

The woman broke into a full sprint, her mouth wide-open baring bloodstained teeth, and Jacob’s world slowed to a crawl. She was going to kill him, he realized, and in that moment, more than anything, he wanted to live. All the time he had spent contemplating the peaceful embrace of death, all the time he had spent replaying his mistakes over and over in his head, all the time he had spent in the hotel room with pistol-in-hand waiting for the courage to pull the trigger, all of it wasted. The universe was finally ready to give him what he had long desired and he refused it. Jacob ran faster than he ever had before.

The woman’s gurgling, animalistic growls grew louder and more desperate with each passing second. Though the elevator materialized into view, Jacob knew that she would catch up to him before he could escape safely. He scanned the surroundings for something to defend himself with, and hardly thinking, reached out for an iron candelabra latched to the side of a lobby column. Hands wrapped tight around the metal, he turned and saw his death fast approaching from only a few arms’ lengths away. A surge of adrenaline coursed through his veins like hot magma and he pulled with all his strength, screaming, and ripped the candelabra free.

Jacob held the base of the candelabra with both hands and swung at the woman’s face as she charged into him. It connected with a sickening crunch and the force of impact sent her reeling.

The woman quickly found her bearings, and though her nose was a broken, bloody mess, she rushed forward as if she hadn’t been injured. Jacob swung again and smashed her arm. Still, she pressed on unflinchingly and backed him into one of the lobby sofas. Having trapped him, she snapped wildly at his exposed skin, but Jacob blocked the attack and caught her neck between the candelabra arms. She snarled at him through the metal.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He grunted through clenched teeth, and he thrust with as much force as he could muster, lifting her up before he slammed her down. Though confined somewhat by the makeshift cage, she flailed her arms around and managed to grab hold of Jacob’s leg. He tried to kick free but her grip was unnaturally rigid, and the more he fought it, the more he was in danger of losing his balance. With her hands tightly bound to his leg, she began to seize. She jerked and spasm’d into a frenzy, bringing his leg within inches of her grinding jaws, and he reacted, forcing his body weight down onto the candelabra at an angle to cut off her breathing. She wheezed the last of her snarls and he pressed harder, imagining that the iron was actually squeezing the air out of her throat. After some time, her grip loosened and her arms collapsed to the side. She had blacked out. Not wanting to stay for her recovery, Jacob rushed to the elevator and pushed the service button repeatedly for the doors to open, and once inside, pushed repeatedly for the penthouse level. The doors slid shut and he crumpled to the floor in an exhausted heap, sobbing his relief.

He wanted to live.

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/23/the-start-of-a-zombie-apocalypse/feed/21tarunssSteve Jobs on Living Before You Diehttps://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/21/steve-jobs-on-living-before-you-die/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/21/steve-jobs-on-living-before-you-die/#commentsWed, 22 Aug 2012 03:25:06 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=166Wanted to post this since I watch it from time to time for inspiration and motivation. His ideas match my own personal philosophy to a great extent. For anyone paying attention, I'll be posting something original in the next day or two. Sorry for the delays - things are getting really busy since my return to Philadelphia. Continue reading →]]>

Wanted to post this since I watch it from time to time for inspiration and motivation. His ideas match my own personal philosophy to a great extent. For anyone paying attention, I’ll be posting something original in the next day or two. Sorry for the delays – things are getting really busy since my return to Philadelphia.

Busy evening, but I wanted to share this quote from the author of Don Quixote.
To me, this sort of inspiration is particularly poignant because it is not blind to the realities of our existence. It runs in stark contrast to the popular quote, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end." Here, however, Miguel de Cervantes is inspired to think differently and to dream big after having been exposed to the morbidly depressing realities of war.
In other words, life can be depressing as hell. It is of no benefit to pretend that the universe will reward us, always. We should accept that life has the potential to be extraordinarily shitty, and we should use this dissatisfaction to shape a new, less risk-averse perspective. It is then that we will thrive.
Life hurts sometimes. It hurts a lot of the time. But you must keep dreaming.
Keep dreaming.

Continue reading →]]>Busy evening, but I wanted to share this quote from the author of Don Quixote.

“I have lived nearly fifty years, and I have seen life as it is.

Pain, misery, hunger….cruelty beyond belief.I have heard the singing from tavernsand the moan from bundles of filth on the streets.I have been a soldier and have seen my comrades fall in battle…Or die more slowly under the lash in Africa.I have held them in my arms in the final moment.These were the men, who saw life as it is,Yet they died despairing.No glory, no gallant last words… only their eyes filled with confusion,Whimpering the question,

‘Why?’

I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived.

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?Perhaps to be too practical is madness.To surrender dreams – this may be madness.To seek treasure where there is only trash.Too much sanity may be madness – and maddest of all:To see life as it is, and not as it should be.”

To me, this sort of inspiration is particularly poignant because it is not blind to the realities of our existence. It runs in stark contrast to the popular quote, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” Here, however, Miguel de Cervantes is inspired to think differently and to dream big after having been exposed to the morbid realities of war.

In other words, life can be depressing as hell. It is of no benefit to pretend that the universe will reward us, always. We should accept that life has the potential to be extraordinarily shitty, and we should use this dissatisfaction to shape a new, less risk-averse perspective. It is then that we will thrive.

Life hurts sometimes. It hurts a lot of the time. But you must keep dreaming.

That’s not a bad attitude to have, necessarily. There are plenty of people in life — family, friends, and strangers — who will tell you that you can’t or shouldn’t do something. Don’t fall prey to their negativity. For reasons why, please refer back to my post, ‘CHASE YOUR FUCKING DREAMS’.

Pride is a complicated thing. As a dreamer, pride can be what keeps you afloat in tough times, but, left unchecked, can also be what sinks you.

Here’s an extended personal example.

When I was finishing up with the major edits of my first novel, I read a quote by Ira Glass on the art of storytelling:

“All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit.

Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”

I remember being vaguely disappointed with my overall novel at that point in time, despite being happy with parts of it. However, having sacrificed so many nights and having shed a ludicrous amount of sweat and tears into the work, I refused to admit to what Ira Glass was saying – that the feeling of disappointment I was bottling up inside was indicative of something real, that perhaps I wasn’t an overly harsh critic of my work, that perhaps the work was flawed, genuinely flawed. Instead, I told myself that my work was perfect, despite the instinctual negative response I felt towards it. My pride wouldn’t let me accept that I needed to keep pushing forward and improving. My pride convinced me to rest on (false) laurels. And so I stagnated.

The truth is that pride is an effective shield against naysayers, and in the beginning I desperately needed one. As soon as I decided to take writing seriously, a metric fuckton of nays were said: from family, friends, even strangers, all of whom were stupefied by my decision to pursue writing as anything more than a hobby. They told me I should focus on my law career. They questioned my talent, my passion, and my determination. Ultimately, I constructed a tower shield of pride and pushed through their ranks, thinking myself a Spartan a la 300.

If you don’t develop at least that basic amount of pride — if you don’t believe in yourself enough to deflect the initial onslaught of hate-arrows that will be rained down upon you by naysayers — then you won’t make it to the next battle. Your dream will die.

KNOW THAT YOU ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO TRY. That is the minimum amount of pride necessary if you’re going to go chase your dream.

Now, where does pride spiral out of control?

When you’ve invested a great deal of time, energy, emotion, and potentially money into chasing your dream and after having fought off the initial wave of naysayers, oftentimes, the only naysayer left is you. So you’re psychologically isolated and you feel like all you have to show for yourself is this work-product that you’ve created (or are in the middle of creating). And the worst part about it is that you’re not satisfied with the work-product. So, you do what most humans do, and you rationalize it to fit a certain narrative that will preserve your sanity. Typically, we imagine that we have only two narrative choices:

1) This work-product is amazing.You become too proud. And when the work-product turns out not to be amazing, and you haven’t made any progress because you were too proud to accept the flaws and improve, then inevitable rejection of your work-product will lead you to quit pursuing your dream.

Notice how whether you become overly prideful or abandon your pride altogether, both narrative paths lead to you quitting.

Wait a second…but if what Ira Glass says is true, and most people are not creating particularly good work at first, then how does anybody succeed? Who keeps going? Why would anyone choose not to quit after so many setbacks and failures?

The problem is that we have a tendency to focus too much on the obvious work-product (the album, the book, the film, the program, the business plan, etc.), when the reality is that all that time, energy, emotion, and money that you’ve spent chasing your dream is simultaneously developing a second, less obvious work-product: your skills. If you can balance your pride, knowing that you are good enough to keep going, but not so good that you can’t improve, then you will be able to modify your techniques and your thinking as time goes on, accept criticism, and improve your skills. Over time, your skills will develop to an extent where the work-products you create have caught up to your expectations. That is when success is imminent.

In conclusion, pride is useful for the dreamer, even necessary. But you must take great care not to let it develop to such an extent that you stagnate. As always, seek to improve, pursue, and ultimately, to conquer.

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/18/pride-is-a-tool-use-it-wisely/feed/3tarunssDemand more out of life – you’re entitled to it.https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/demand-more-out-of-life-youre-entitled-to-it/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/demand-more-out-of-life-youre-entitled-to-it/#commentsMon, 13 Aug 2012 06:22:39 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=86Continue reading →]]>Whether driven by a personal fear of failure, family pressure, or something else, most people make a crucial, endlessly frustrating mistake: they don’t demand enough out of life.

Let me try and put your existence into perspective here.

You were born into this world against staggeringly low odds. The typical human male ejaculate contains 150 million sperm cells, but you were the one that made it. You won the fucking lottery. Drill this into your head. You are a member of the privileged elite in a universe of infinite possibilities. It’s about damn time to act the part.

As children and teenagers and young adults, we imagine that we will eventually be important political figures, athletes, musicians, movie stars, astronauts, and adventurers – when we dream, it is unapologetically big – but somewhere along the developmental process, we begin to manage our expectations. Suddenly, the things we once wanted more than anything are too risky to pursue, and we are left in cubicles to plunk away at spreadsheets and contemplate the life that could have been.

Huh?

I’m always shocked by the idea that we must severely limit our expectations of life. Our perception of risk does not fundamentally alter the truth of existence, and neither should it alter what we demand out of it. We are rare, short-lived, fragile creatures, yet society tells us to be common, to live as though we are immortal, and to take as few risks as possible. In other words, we are, by the mere fact of statistically improbable birth, lottery winners, but we spend the currency of our existence in irrational, contrarian ways.

Imagine that you’ve won a $150M jackpot, but that you choose to limit yourself to spending only $200k. This is what we call ‘the standard life’.

NAYSAYERS: “THIS IS NOT YOUR TIME.”

There is a well-accepted belief among many people that to dream, and to follow those dreams, is the province of the wealthy and privileged. American founding father John Adams expressed this belief quite elegantly.

“I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history, naval architecture, navigation, commerce, and agriculture, in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry, and porcelain.”
– John Adams

The idea of specific generational financial and stability expectations is birthed from a culture of need. In revolutionary America, there was a poverty of freedom and the culture of post-revolutionary America reflected that: the virtue of sacrifice was put on a pedestal. The Revolutionary War was a particularly bloody war, and it is understandable that those who lived and bled in those times would expect the same level of discipline and sacrifice out of those that would eventually follow them. We can see this same culture of need (and the subsequent generational expectations) in rising immigrant communities that come from the developing and third world.

Many first-generation Indian immigrants to the Western world force their second-generation children into stable and financially secure careers. There is an obsession with stability among these immigrants that is a result of the culture of need that once permeated their home country when they themselves were raised and educated there. In the Indian immigrant’s mind, they cannot identify as wealthy and privileged despite all evidence to the contrary – it is simply outside of the mindset of their self-imposed culture of need. The truth of it is that Indian-Americans are the wealthiest and highest-educated ethnic group in the United States. They are the very essence of wealth and privilege, at least according to financial and educational barometers. Thus, we find that the feeling of freedom to pursue, and to allow another to pursue, risky dreams is not based around one’s real wealth and privilege, but rather one’s perceived wealth and privilege.

If perception is the key to freedom, then recall that we who live are the lucky few. We are the elite of the endlessly potential universe, we were born wealthy through lottery and we are privileged with existence. We are powerful and free. If you do not think that you are in a position to dream, that is an issue with your perception. Re-calibrate your thinking and approach life differently. There’s not much time left to make things happen, so do it.

]]>https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/13/demand-more-out-of-life-youre-entitled-to-it/feed/14tarunssThe Stars Don’t Shine in the City (Short Story)https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/06/the-stars-dont-shine-in-the-city-short-story/
https://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/2012/08/06/the-stars-dont-shine-in-the-city-short-story/#commentsMon, 06 Aug 2012 12:27:35 +0000http://ticktockdreamers.wordpress.com/?p=70Continue reading →]]>Wrote this three years ago when I was in college. I had just read about the fatal beating of an A-student in an inner city school in Chicago, and was deeply saddened by the event. It inspired me to write this. Hope you enjoy.

—

Jamal was coming home late.

His English teacher, Mr. Johnson, had delayed him after class to discuss his future. Specifically, the possibility of a college education. Even as Jamal approached the squalor of the projects, he allowed a small grin to creep up from the side of his mouth. It was Mr. Johnson who had convinced Jamal to expect more from himself, who told him that he could be somebody, and so, in the midst of struggle, he began to rely heavily on his teacher for support. He might even admit that he liked Mr. Johnson, and that was a rare thing.

Rarity defined Jamal – shambling under the weight of a stuffed backpack – his bookishness, his curiosity, all presented an unfamiliar image around these parts. In a place where dreams were buried prematurely, his had survived for an unusually long time, enough to earn him the jealous scorn of peers who had relegated themselves to a life of small victories and even smaller expectations.

“Ay yo, check it – here comes that Steve Urkle lookin’ mothafucka.”

Jamal immediately recognized the slouching figures crowded ahead on the street corner. Long ago, when they were kids, they used to play together. Now they were entry-level thugs slinging drugs, thinking they were kings that had finally been given the crowns they rightfully deserved. As Jamal walked past, he felt the violent burn of their judgments, a cigarette butt on the skin of his being, forcing him into a forward march, step-by-shameful-step. He took care to remain submissive. They would appreciate that. Build up their ego a bit, he figured, and then they might ignore him. In a way, Jamal understood their swagger. To prosper on these streets demanded a different set of skills, and he didn’t blame them for what they did. What use was an education when problems here were better solved at the smoking end of a pistol barrel or opiate pipe? Intellectual sympathies notwithstanding, he pressed on past his would-be aggressors.

“Damn son, Mr. Johnson’s dick must taste like a mothafuckin’ haagen-daaz, huh? Punk ass over there with him talkin’ bout all kinds of freaky shit, I bet.” They began to orgasmically moan Mr. Johnson’s name: Damon.

Jamal stiffened visibly, struggling to ignore their harassment, but his discomfort telegraphed that he was easy prey. To be perfectly comfortable in the projects was to fully accept an unfortunate, degenerated fate, and Jamal understood that his very refusal to accept that fate was an aggressive statement of superiority, an implicit challenge to the self-worth of all the stunted souls around him.

—

—

Damon Johnson put away his coat on the plastic lawn chair serving as a makeshift seat for the kitchen table and threw his keys casually onto the countertop.

He leaned into the stairs while removing his tie. “Hey Keesh-baby, is there anything to snack on?”

No response. He shrugged it off and began to rummage through the fridge. A strange odor emanated from some unidentified source within, though the fridge itself was largely empty. Damon settled on what little food was available: a lone ham and cheese sandwich that had been neatly saran-wrapped. Sitting down with sandwich in hand, two of the kitchen table’s leg-ends capped in tennis balls, he scanned his surroundings and realized that – despite having moved into this modest condominium six months prior – there was nothing to indicate that it was, in fact, home. No framed photos, no decorative pillows, no wood furniture, nothing. A feeling of impermanence suddenly overwhelmed Damon, as though his life was entirely transient in this place.

He chewed his sandwich at a calculated pace, studying each bite with his tongue as if it were a clue to some great mystery. Why hadn’t his wife spruced the place up, or, at the very least, asked him to do something? Had she not noticed? Impossible, he thought. Keisha was an independent web developer who worked from her home office, and she came from a relatively wealthy background, having lived her entire life, up until recently, in the quiet comfort of the suburbs. Certainly, the state of the condo would have shocked her white-picket-fence sensibilities.

Damon scratched his chin and chewed, wracking his mind for an explanation. The cheese is stale, he realized. I’m eating old fucking cheese, too. The front door creaked open before he could settle his thoughts.

“Hey. Just took the trash out,” Keisha said in a deadpan tone. She walked in, rubbing her hands down the side of her jeans. She handed Damon an envelope, “I found this letter addressed to you. I don’t know how it ended up out there. Was in a pile with a whole bunch of other envelopes. You should have a talk with the post office.”

Damon held the envelope but was unconcerned with its contents. He set it aside on the table and looked up at his wife with earnest eyes. “Keesh, have you seen this place lately? It’s been six months, but the fridge is empty, there are tennis balls supporting the bottom of the table, and I’m sitting on a lawn chair in my own damn kitchen. What’s going on here?” He kicked at the one of the tennis balls to emphasize his frustration.

A hint of aggression began to seep into Keisha’s voice, “Well, what are you going to do about it? You can’t expect me to do everything around here.”

“It’s not that you haven’t done something, or that I haven’t – I mean, it’s as if you don’t care at all – you work here! Just sitting here for five minutes, I feel like a vagrant,” he complained. Damon peeked his head around his wife and into the living room. “Fuck, are those packed boxes? We still haven’t unpacked some of the boxes out there, Keesh! Aren’t we trying to make ourselves a home?”

“A home, Damon? We live just a few blocks away from the projects and you want to talk about building a home? What happened to raising a family, or any of the other million bullshit promises you made?” Keisha pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers, wincing, “I can’t leave the house without worrying I’ll be mugged, or raped even. I can’t raise a family here. Those neighbors – the Robinsons – they scream, and yell, and fight constantly, not that the other neighbors don’t, the Robinsons just do it so much damn better than the rest. The water is never quite hot enough, everything, yes, everything is desolate grey around here…I can’t do this Damon. I can’t. I thought this whole arrangement would be different.”

“No. You thought I would give up by now,” Damon said.

He hung his head, defeated. He knew that he could not convince her any longer, and they sat together in a bubble of silence. Keisha understood why he had taken the teaching position in the first place, and she cared, for a time. Damon obsessed over ‘what ifs’ – his early struggles against the pressures of the projects were successful, but his friends and family were not so lucky. A close friend shot to death in his own car. An uncle sent to prison for ten years for gang-related activity. An older brother struggling with drug addiction. Every single one represented wasted potential. Damon grew up telling himself that in order to succeed he had to leave this place, but with success came the realization that he could never live with himself unless he returned to save the ones he had left behind. Always the shining knight, Keisha used to joke.

She walked around the table and leaned over to hug him from behind. “I’m sorry,” she said. Damon sensed her ultimatum through her touch. “I know how much this all meant to you. I’m sorry, I really am.”

Keisha climbed the stairs, leaving Damon to stare blankly at the envelope. Snapping it up from the table, he broke out of his catatonic state with a sudden thrust of his fingers through the envelope. Inside there was a single page of notebook paper, signed with the name of a student in his class who, by all accounts, had never shown any real interest in learning. It was a poem. Damon waded through a torrent of misspelled words and grammatical defects and erratic punctuation. But the imagery was crisp, he noted, the pacing excellent.

He wept quietly.

—

—

Jamal was nearly out of breath. The backpack slammed continuously into his spine.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He felt sure that it would snap him in half. The flesh had turned raw and spasms of pain snaked along his spine with every thump. Jamal looked back. They were still in close pursuit, murderous smiles planted across their faces. He finally slid his backpack off onto the ground, but despite his regained advantage, the streets seemed an impossible maze, an endless concrete horizon flush with the sky.

A thunderous clap tore through the air. Jamal felt a shrill buzzing smother his mind. He covered his ears and shook his head violently to rid himself of it, but the buzzing continued. More shots. The thunder now seemed a faint whisper, but Jamal’s eyes widened in shock as he felt the immediate thrust of a bullet entering his thigh. It wasn’t the first time in his life that he wished he was bigger and stronger – the bullet pushing itself clean through the unimpressive mass of muscle – and his body collapsed awkwardly to the ground. As he crawled away, dragging his limp leg on pavement, he anticipated the worst.

His assailants caught up with him, and Jamal turned to face them, wincing. He prayed that they were finished with him, that they would let him walk away, tail between his legs and licking his wounds. They stood over him, and Jamal’s eyes wandered to the one with the pistol at his side, hand visibly shaking. This must be his first time shooting at someone, Jamal observed, and he felt the shooter’s fear commingle with his own. What little hope he had was quickly shattered. Across the street, several passersby looked on in awe, waiting for something to happen. The attackers would need to be consistent with their persona, now. Jamal examined the shooter – he was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, with soft features and downcast eyes. The shooter looked at the others questioningly, his grip on the pistol loosening.

One of the older thugs grabbed his faltering companion by the shirt collar, and nodded his head toward the gathering crowd to alert him to their presence, “What’s the matter with you? Show these bitches that we ain’t nothin’ to fuck with!” He gestured with his hand as if it were a pistol, stabbing aggressively in Jamal’s direction. The crowd of onlookers watched from a distance, too comfortable in their relative safety to interfere. Though this was a spectacle, an event, they had come to accept the reality of violence so thoroughly as to experience it with morbid ease.

The pistol was raised slowly and pointed at Jamal’s head. He could have sworn he saw tears.

A sudden clap of thunder tore again through the air.

—

—

“How do you like the margarita? Lawrence and I learned how to make them while we were vacationing along the western coast of Mexico,” Elaine said as she walked by. She was an old college friend of Keisha’s, a successful businesswoman and an outspoken liberal.

Damon took a sip of his cocktail, “It’s fine, thank you.”

He didn’t like her. She was the sort of person whose support of a particular issue was correlated with the perceived social capital to be gained from said support. He remembered Elaine and her husband Lawrence had discussed the possibility of a charity trip to Africa. Yes, surely your travel adventure is the best remedy for poverty and malnutrition, he grumbled to himself then. And now, Damon scanned the room, disgusted with the niceties of life beyond the grey-stained walls of the projects, smiles plastered on plaster-white faces. Keisha had persuaded him several months ago to leave his teaching position in the city and move to the suburbs, where she would be happier and more comfortable. Not that he had much of a choice – it was either that or a divorce, and he still loved Keisha. But when he saw her, cocktail glass in hand, laughing and smiling with all the others, he realized that it had become so much harder to convince himself of that.

Jamal’s death had rattled Damon to the core of his being. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid. He was afraid that everything he could ever do to build and fix and improve would inevitably be destroyed, and dragged through the dirt. So he ran. He ran far away to the safety of life outside of the inner city. Surrounded by the noisy hustle and bustle of the cocktail party, Damon stood in silent contemplation.

“Silly!” Keisha slapped him on the arm playfully. “What are you doing standing here all by yourself?”

Damon was jolted back to his senses – Keisha, Lawrence, and Elaine were gathered to his left and judging by their faces it seemed as though they had already prepared responses.

“Just thinking, that’s all,” Damon sighed.

Keisha ignored him and continued, “We were just talking about how terrible it was that Jamal died – one his students, Elaine – and how glad we are that we left. So much needless violence.”

Damon nodded his acceptance but felt anger brewing inside.

Elaine shot him a concerned frown. “That is so sad. How did he die? The government should really focus more on improving the lives of people in, you know, the inner city.”

“I’ve heard some horror stories about those kids. Just not wanting to learn at all,” Lawrence added. “It’s a tragedy, really. Was this Jamal a good student?”

Damon closed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than for all the sound in the room to die, and to be enveloped in the quiet of his own mind for just an instant.

“I’m sorry, honey. We don’t have to talk about Jamal anymore if it makes you sad,” Keisha said, rubbing his back with gentle fingers.

Damon opened his eyes again and curled his mouth in disgust at his wife and her faux-interested friends. Without saying a word, he walked away and left the house through the front door, slamming it behind him. They did not follow. Sitting on the doorstep, Damon tilted his head toward the night sky, brilliantly lit by a carpet of stars. He hated the stars. He screamed at them. Cursed them. The stars don’t shine in the city.